


Till the Last Blow

by tazo16



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazo16/pseuds/tazo16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a boxer. Sam works in a hospital and brings Dean in to spread some holiday cheer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the Last Blow

“In the left corner we have… Castiel!”  
The crowd roared as Castiel stepped out onto the platform, the blue foam sinking down to model his footsteps. He used to be blinded every time he stepped out, forcing him to shield his eyes from the spotlight’s searching glare. But he’d learned to get used to it- coming out onto the platform with a hand over your eyes was a sign of weakness. All the greenies did it, but if you keep doing it for too long after you’ve started, people know you won't last much longer. The tough ones learn to manage the glare; the others drops out soon enough.  
Castiel stared straight ahead, not looking at the crowds. Knowing that so many people were staring at him, watching his every jab, was still nerve-wracking, after all this time. He tried to ignore the screaming throngs, letting their chants fade into a dull roar at the edge of his consciousness. The crowds always seemed to like this stoic routine. It made him seem tough, above them all, above him opponent. But not so much that he appeared overconfident. No one liked a cocky fighter, except for when they got to make fun of him when he lost.   
“And in the right corner, we have our surprise opponent!”  
Castiel never tried to feel too confident before a fight, but he wasn’t too worried today. Surprise opponents were generally newbies who’s managers thought they could make it in the big leagues, but lower down fighters refused to fight him. They rarely lasted very long, but for some reason, these kids kept on trying it. They just didn’t have the patience to get the big leagues the hard way. Castiel usually avoided these fights, but he’d heard word that this was going to be a big fight, and the pot was pretty big, so he agreed to the fight. It wasn’t as if he had something terribly important to do tonight.   
Castiel tuned back in to what the announcer was shouting to the exciting throngs. Maybe he would actually know who this kid was, know how he fought.  
“This fight is going to a historical one, people. This man here is a former champion, one who many of you will recognize by name, but few by face. He’s long been in retirement, but now he’s back, and he’s hungry for more! Let’s hear it for METATRON!”  
Castiel went bolt upright. That couldn’t be right. Metatron had disappeared years ago when he suffered a near lethal blow to the head. He’d heard that the man went into retirement, working in a library somewhere. He must be in his near 60s by now. Why was he back?  
Castiel watched as the man stepped calmly into the ring. He looked so comfortable there, Castiel was barely able to tell that this was Metatron’s first time in the ring in nearly 20 years. He watched him turn and wave to the crowds, grinning broadly. “I’ve missed you,” he seemed to mouth. The crowds loved it, their shouts growing to one, unanimous, primal cry. The man practically oozed charisma. It turned Castiel’s stomach. This was the boxing ring, not a political pulpit. You’re supposed to check the congenial smiles and kissing babies’ heads at the door.  
“Alright, let’s get the clock up there! This game is going to have 3 rounds…”  
The announcer rattled off the usual pre-fight spiel. Castiel could probably say it by heart at this point. He tuned the man out, choosing instead to size up his slightly more than unexpected opponent.  
Metatron had been retired long before Castiel had even come into the game. He’d never seen him fight live, but he’d watch his fighting videos, when Castiel was still trying to figure out his own fighting style. Metatron was short, but he used it to his advantage. He struck for the stomach and legs, choosing to immobilize his opponent by injuring his legs to the point that he barely could fight back when Metatron finally knocked him out with a solid punch to the head. He moved easily, skittering around the ring, while his opponents lumbered around, their larger bodies harder to move as quickly. Metatron used his speed to draw out his fights, wearing out his opponent, waiting until his opponent was worn out before knocking them out swiftly and brutally.  
Castiel didn’t have a specific fighting style. He wasn’t as compact as Metatron, but he was on the smaller side of the mid-weight category. Other than that, Castiel’s general approach was simple-use your opponent’s advantages to his disadvantage. If the opponent aimed for the face, duck and aim for his stomach and legs. If they go for the solar plexus and stomach, keep yourself ducked low and tuck your stomach in, preventing them from reaching it. It made fighting back a bit awkward, but it threw his opponent for a loop. Something Castiel had learned was that the majority of boxers had one specific strategy, and if it doesn’t work, they don’t have much of a back up plan, other than the very basics. If Castiel prevented hem from using their fighting style, they were distracted, concentrating mostly on how to fight, instead of how to avoid Castiel’s fighting back.   
Castiel always tried to learn his opponent’s fighting style before coming into a fight. But in the case of a newer boxer, or a surprise match, Castiel had found that he was able to learn his opponent’s strategy rather quickly. It was almost intuitive by this point.   
He figured it was a bit of an intellectual approach to something as physical as boozing, but the strategy had served him well over the years. He wasn’t the mid-weight champion, but he made enough money to get by, and he was content.   
“Fighters ready?” Castiel brought himself back to he present. He shrugged off his sweatshirt, dropping it over the side of the ring, and shoved in his teeth protectors. He turned to face Metatron, he leaned forward and visibly clenched his fists.  
“His grip is too tight.” Castiel noticed. If he hit Castiel with his hands like that, he would hurt himself, not Castiel. Maybe his hands were shaking. But why? Metatron would never be nervous. He was the boxer, in his day. He otherwise didn’t look nervous. So why were his fists so tight?  
A bell rang on the edge of Castiel’s consciousness. Right. The fight. Focus, Castiel, focus.  
He edged forward and he and Metatron began to circle each other, both wary to be the first to strike. That was something Metatron was famous for. But Castiel wasn’t about to hit first either.  
Finally, Metatron lunged forward and struck a blow towards Castiel’s kidneys. It was a predictable move, one that Castiel blocked with ease, but the crowd let out an audible gasp when they saw Metatron hit first. They knew already- this game was going to be different.   
By the end of the first round, neither had landed a single punch. It looked like they were simply wearing themselves out and running down the clock. The crowd was getting restless, itching for a real fight, not a game of bearbaiting.  
In the minute and a half in between, Castiel wiped the sweat off his forehead, trying to steady himself. He was going to need a new tactic if he wanted to actually win this match, not just wait it out. To be able to say that he beat the great Metatron would be…that would be something.   
The bell rang again, signaling the start of the second round. The crowds shouts roared in his ears, growing in volume until they sounded less like chants of an overeager crowd and more like the roar of some predator beast long extinct.   
Castiel and Metatron began circling each other, just as they had the round before. The crowd instantly began booing, starving for action. Bloodthirsty dogs. Castiel would never be able to imagine how anyone could ever enjoy watching this.  
“Hit him!” A particularly loud voice from the audience screamed. It didn’t matter who he was talking to. He probably wasn’t even referring to one of them in particular. They just wanted a fight.  
Metatron must have been thinking the same thing, because he smirked at Castiel and raised an eyebrow. Castiel felt himself relax a bit. Metatron wasn’t taking this too seriously. He just needed a good game to launch himself back into the standings. Nothing more. Castiel nodded back slightly. They were giving to give that crowd a show.  
With a roar, Castiel rushed forward, aiming a fist directly at his abdomen. Metatron blocked it easily, responding by sweeping a foot under Castiel to send him sprawling.   
But it was too early in the round for Castiel to stay down just yet. He leapt back up and punched Metatron squarely on the jaw. Metatron responded in kind, hitting Castiel in his right eye.   
They continued on like that, sparing back and forth, landing a hit on one another, and each time, coming back for more. The blows weren’t particularly hard. They were more for show than anything else. An exaggeratedly pulled back elbow, a hit to the lungs, more like Shakespearean sword fighting than actual boxing. Castiel had been in matches like this- all boxers had. Even the crowds knew they went on, but they didn’t care. All they wanted was a show.  
The end of round 2 saw them both visibly panting, clearly worn out, but both standing upright. The crowd was really riled up now. He and Metatron had been putting on what they hoped looked like an equal fight. And there's nothing more a stadium full of boxing fans love more than a fight where it’s anyone’s game. Castiel was sure that if the bets were being exchanged before, they were flying from hand to hand now.  
Castiel heard the bell for the third round ring. He readied himself. He was going to win this. He needed to win this. He was going to-  
“This is ridiculous.”  
“You’re being ridiculous.”  
Sam adjusted his Santa hat, peering in the mirror, before turning to face his brother. “You agreed to this.”  
“After you wouldn’t shut up for days.” Dean grumbled. He looked disdainfully at the very fake beard in his hand. At the moment, it looked more like a demented puppet gone disastrously wrong.  
“Your skin’s looking a bit green there, Grinch.”  
“I am not the Grinch!” Dean tied the beard tightly around the lower half of his face, yanking the strings into a tight knot behind his head. “I like Christmas as much as the next guy. And I wanted to do this, Just without the costumes.”  
“Dean, It’s for the kids.”  
“Yeah, the kids. You.” Dean shoved Sam’s shoulder with his own. His shoulder landed somewhere on his brother’s upper bicep instead. Sam just pushed back.  
“I’m not the immature one here. Now c’mon, we’re gonna be late.” Sam managed to squeeze himself out of their stall of a bathroom, heading towards their equally as small kitchen where they had left the candycanes the night before.  
“I’m the immature one.” Dean repeated, imitating his brother. His beard bounced up and down in response.   
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that.” Sam called back.  
“Traitor.” Dean muttered, turning away from the mirror in disgust. He exited the bathroom and walked the 1.5 steps it took to get the door to their shoebox apartment. The apartment was tiny, barely livable by Dean’s standards. But it was close to the hospital when Sam was doing his residency, and that was necessity for his frequent moonlight shifts. Those shifts were their prime source of income. Residency didn’t pay well, and mechanics didn’t roll in the big dough either. So they thought of the expenses in MUs- moonlighting untis. The new corroborator he needed for his baby was costing them 2 MUs. Not too bad.  
Dean grabbed his keys off the hook “Sammy, you coming?”  
Sam stuck his head halfway through the kitchen doorway. “I’m right here, Dean.” He huffed. “And please, could you at least try not to embaress me at work? The other guys would make fun to no end.”  
Dean chuckled. “Are you kidding?” I’ve got a stack of your baby pictures right here.” He patted his pocket and grinned “I’m saving the mudface one for a certain female Chief Resident.”  
Sam paled. “You wouldn’t.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Would I?” He swung open the door and laughed his way towards the stairs, ignoring his panicking brother trailing behind him.  
“If you want to run into mostly little kids, try the osteo-ward.” Sam advised Dean as the hospital’s electric doors slid open before them. They hurried through into the slightly warmer main lobby, eager to escape the sharp ward outside.  
“Them and all the old ladies coming in for their 2nd hip replacement.” Dean rubbed his hand together and blew on them softly. “Which way is that?”  
Sam scanned the lobby for a moment before pointing to hallway trailing off, towards the left. The doorframe was alight in a rapidly blinking rainbow of various strands of Christmas lights. “It’s through there. I'm going to the E.R since my shifts is in…” Sam consulted his watch, “3 minutes. I’ll find you during my break.”  
“Sounds like a plan.” Dean grabbed the candy bag and stuck a peppermint stick into his mouth. “Go save some people.”  
When he was sure that Sam left to make it to his shift on time, Dean faced the doorway. He took a breath, steeling himself. Then he grinned. “This is gonna be fun.”  
Dean had to admit, it was fun. But it was exhausting. For kids with broken limbs, they sure had a lot of energy. Dean wasn’t sure what drugs they were giving these kids, but they seemed pretty similar to whatever Sammy took during his 36 hour shifts. Dean had thought he’d come into their rooms, they’d be sitting in bed, maybe with a mom sitting next to the bed, and he’d give them a candy cane and tell them they were on the naughty list but got candy anyways. Something like that. but of course it couldn’t be that simple.

As it turned out, the osteo-ward had a separate playroom for all the kids to burn off energy. All the kids were huddled in there, running and crutching around, all playing and yelling and seemingly trying to break another bone while they were already in the hospital. And when Dean came in, with all his bearded glory, they launched themselves at his feet, clamoring for candy canes and a chance to sit on his knee. Most of them were too old for Santa anyways, and he clearly wasn’t the old jolly fellow, but they all hopped up on his knee just the same, gleefully listing off all the presents they wanted to magically receive that year. The whole thing was pretty adorable. But then they asked Dean to play with them. Which sounded like a great idea at first.   
But then they played sardines around the whole ward, which was freaking huge. And then sardines became tag. And then tag became capture the flag. And then that got Dean thrown out.  
“We were just having a little fun-“ Dean tried to explain to the head nurse who escorted him back to main lobby.  
“That was what you said the last time you ran into my cart.” The nurse said. Dean squinted at his name tag.  
“Oh, c’mon Bobby, you wouldn’t throw out Santa.” Dean pulled the beard back over his face.  
The nurse looked unimpressed. “Git.” He said. And that was the end of that.  
Dean ambled his way over to a chair near a window, deciding to wait out the time until Sam’s lunch break. He collapsed into the seat, letting his limbs extend in a well neded rest. He yanked down the beard towards his chest and closed his eyes. He could use a nap at this point.  
“I saw what you did back there.” A deep voice said. So much for a nap.  
Dean opened his eyes a crack. The man in front of him was clearly a patient. Right arm in a sling and cast up till his upper arms, black eye, and a bandage around his nose that was slightly crooked. “Yeah?”  
“I saw what you did for those kids. You played for them for three hours.”  
“That was three hours? Huh. Well, just trying to spread the good ol’ Christmas spirit.” Dean pulled the beard back up over his mouth. “Do you want to tell Santa what you want for Christmas?”  
The man cracked a smile. “Four whole ribs would be nice.”  
“Four?” Dean shook his head. “Christ man, what happened to you?”  
“I was in a boxing match. I lost. At least from what I can remember.”  
“Clearly. You took a few blows to the head?”  
“I didn’t realize what kind of opponent I was facing!”   
“Sure, sure. You professional?”  
The man sat down next to Dean and sighed. “I used to be. I’m now in what they like to call, ‘temporary retirement.’”   
“Man, that blows. I’m sorry. What are you going to do now?”  
The man tightened his jaw. “Watch old fight recordings. And train. As much as I can.”  
Dean turned to face the stranger fully. “Didn’t you say you have four broken ribs?”  
The man looked perplexed. “Yes. So?” He ran his unbroken hand through his hair, ruffling it further. It didn’t need any help, but Dean appreciated the view silently. “I wasn’t just beaten. I was beaten by a great. And he embarrassed me. I'm going to train, and I. Will. Beat. Him. Whatever it takes.”  
Dean frowned. “I'm not one to talk, but you should watch that grudge of yours. You might trip on it on your way out of here.”  
The stranger ran the hand down his face, rubbing his purple and yellow eyes. “You’re right. I- I’m sorry. It’s been what you’d call a long day.”  
“No kidding. So, care to explain what happened? And not just that you lost. I'm guessing there's a bit more to this story.” Dean extended a hand. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.”  
The man looked hesitant, but eventually took the hand, shaking as firmly as he could with 3 fingers in a splint. “Castiel.”  
Dean grinned. “Nice name. Take a seat, Castiel.” Dean let the L linger on his tongue. “Stay a while.”  
Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I think I will, Dean Winchester.” And he sat down.


End file.
